Moulin yearns to ease the heaviness weighing in his chest.
However, he would be a coward to run away from the pain as his mother had taught him to face his troubles and search for answers. And if answers were never there to exist for him, he would find it himself. But trapped within these walls, he could not find a way.
Currently, the bright morning light dappled over his figure. He sat languidly on the chaise couch, hoping to find peace within the silence and the gentle rays of the day. But he couldn't. His eyes downcast, lashes lowered seeming to flutter, he blinked slowly. He looked like he came out from a painting. Gradually, the pen within his fingers stopped. With furrowed eyebrows, Moulin placed the pen on the books at his side and carefully folded the letter in his hands.
"Young master..." A soft voice called.